Enough
by Angelus1
Summary: A Spuffy VDay, set S7.


Title: Enough  
  
Author: Angelus  
  
E-mail: angelus1317@hotmail.com (Please put "Enough" on the subject line.)  
  
Subject: Buffy the Vampire Slayer  
  
Category: BSR  
  
Rating: G  
  
Summary: A Spuffy V-Day, set S7.  
  
Spoilers: None.  
  
Archive: Anywhere, just ask me first.  
  
Disclaimer: Yeah, right, sure I own 'em. In my dreams. Buffy, Spike, Dawn, Willow, Xander, Anya, and any other characters mentioned here are the property of Joss Whedon, WGN, and Mutant Enemy Inc. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
Author's notes: This is fluff. Pure and utter fluff. And lately, that seems to be all I can write.  
  
Dedication: To Tas and Jenna, my history, physics, and fitness buddies. Who needs historical events when there's you two? Now, you write a will and you put it in the freezer and you vacuum up a kangaroo and Garfield's in a haystack and he lives in Cleveland and there's a Harrison sandwich and Richard Nixon (37) has a cold sore!  
  
~*~  
  
I'm in my room, primping in from of the mirror before I head out for yet another day as "Buffy, the School Counselor" when I hear the knock at the door.  
  
"Come on in!" I shout, assuming it's Dawnie or Willow or even Xander. Which is why I don't bother putting a sweater over my tiny tank top before turning around. But who I see isn't Dawnie or Willow or even Xander - it's Spike.  
  
"Hi!" I exclaim, more from shock than happiness. But I can't deny the little thrill that courses through me at the sight of those full, kissable lips and sexy bedroom eyes. Suddenly realizing my state of undress, I cross my arms both protectively and self-consciously across my chest. He stares at the floor, shifting nervously from side to side.  
  
"Spike?" I say gently. He looks up with wide, innocent eyes, and he's not Spike the vampire, he's William the poet. I seem to be seeing quite a bit of William lately.  
  
"Do you know what today is?" he asks softly. I shake my head dumbly and glance over to the calendar posted on my wall. What's today? Second Friday...the fourteenth. Oh. Oh!  
  
Valentine's Day. Guess with all the excitement over the First, romance hasn't exactly been on the top of my priority list lately. Well, not usually. Not until I'm out patrolling in the dark through Hammersmith Park with this beautiful man...vampire. Yes, even the Slayer is entitled to her own lustful little fantasy every now and then.  
  
"I know it's not smart or right or appropriate, but...I got you something," he says. "More of an apology than anything."  
  
"Spike..."  
  
"No," he interrupts. "Please don't tell me that I don't need to apologize, because I *do*. Soul or no soul, I hurt you. Badly. Physically and mentally. Buffy, there are no words in this language or in any other that could ever hope to describe just how sorry I truly am. But this...it's a start."  
  
The pain in his eyes is so raw and so real that I just want to hug him to me, but I know that he would bolt like a skittish cat, so I restrain myself. Instead, I smile reassuringly at him.  
  
"Thank you," I say. "That means alot." He smiles back, a small, quick smile using only one side of his mouth, but a smile nonetheless. He ducks his head, embarrassed.  
  
"Turn around," he instructs, and I do. I am now facing the mirror, and I know Spike is somewhere behind me, because I can hear him and smell him and sense him, but the mirror makes him invisible to my eyes. There's a slight rustling sound, and then he's moving towards me.  
  
It's a little disconcerting, not being able to see him, but I'm able to be at ease simply because it's Spike, and I trust him, and despite everything that has happened between us, I know that he would never intentionally hurt me. He says he loves me, and he means it, and it will take a miracle to make him stop. And that is the fragile beauty of William, the man behind the vampire.  
  
I jump, just a little, when his cool knuckles brush my neck, and he flinches in response. It's sad on some level, even as I tell myself that it shouldn't matter, to know that We may never be able to touch again without that initial flinch.  
  
As I watch, a necklace appears in the mirror the same instant that I feel the metal against my collarbone. Involuntarily, I gasp. It's absolutely beautiful. A thin silver chain suspends fifty or so tiny, sparkling, midnight-blue star pendants. With even the slightest, most subtle movement, they catch and reflect the light so that they appear to shimmer and dance.  
  
Another kind of involuntary gasp escapes me when Spike takes one step closer, brushing the hair away from my neck so that he can fasten the necklace. When it hangs around my neck on its own, he lets his hands rest on my shoulders, the entire length of his body pressed intimately against my backside, his cheek to my temple, his breath in my ear.  
  
"This is also," he murmurs, "a thank-you. You have gone out of your way to help me ever since I got back, even after I...what I did."  
  
"*Tried* to do," I correct him. How can I make him see that the intent and the act are two completely different things? He may have tried, but he couldn't go through with it. Because he's Spike, and underneath all that sarcasm and bravado there lies a tender young man who's as soft as Mom.  
  
As usual, he ignores me. "You are amazing, Buffy. You are the bravest, strongest, kindest, most giving, understanding person I have ever met, and you mean so much to me. You're the best thing I have in my life right now - the only thing. You're all I'm living for. I love you, Buffy. I will always love you. I just wish that that was enough."  
  
I have to take several deep breaths to calm my wildly beating heart after that, the most beautiful speech I've ever heard. As I do this, I lean back against Spike's strong, supportive body, letting my eyes flutter closed. His hands trail lightly over my shoulders and down my arms as he stands me up straight and places a gentle kiss on the side of my neck. But before I can even open my mouth to say something, he backpedals. I spin around, but somehow he's already gone, and I catch only a glimpse of his T-shirted back disappearing down the stairs that are visible through my open door. I want to call after him, but something tells me not to. So instead, I turn back to the mirror.  
  
My fingers toy with the glittering sapphire strand decorating my throat. "It is," I whisper, to no one but myself. "It's more than enough." 


End file.
